


Name Theory

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, Just John Bridgens Falling In Love At First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance, Slice of Life, theres like a LITTLE bit of yearning but nothing painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28905066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: John would normally never do this, the man is twenty years younger than he, for christ’s sake, but a man in love will do reckless things.Written for Bridglar Week Day 3 prompt ‘whose is this coffee’ and The Terror Bingo prompt ‘library’
Relationships: John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48
Collections: Bridglar Week 2021, The Terror Bingo





	Name Theory

From his bedroom window John Bridgens can see the storefront of Erebus Coffee, done up in its naval design with the white anchor decal plastered on the window and the rough blue wood doors. When it opened he did not think he would visit much, but then one portentous day he found his own coffee reserves depleted, and the weather being fair he had reconciled to walk the half block to find a quick replacement. The shop had been fairly empty, the employees gossiping behind the counter. What he had not seen from the outside was the little library, tucked underneath the display of sandwiches and assorted juices.

“Oh, those, you can sit and read any of them you want as long as you don’t take any outside,” said the man at the counter, who wore a humble cowl-neck beige sweater that did nothing to hide his girth. “They’re technically Harry’s and he’d be really upset if they got lost.” The man smiled fondly, pert mouth quirking upwards almost whimsically at the mention of this other person.

“Harry?” The barista pointed to the only other occupant of the coffee shop. Slender and curly haired, he stooped over a set of textbooks (John guessed by their size) chewing on a pencil as he made notes. Little round glasses sat on his nose, as if he were auditioning for the role of an eccentric professor ( _someone like yourself_ , John thought) although the man could not be older than thirty.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” John said, “I just thought I’d ask you for a recommendation.” He gestures at the little library.

“Oh! Of course! I’m so glad to see someone is using it, actually, James let me do it, because it was free decor, but I’d always hoped some would take advantage! What kind of books do you like?”

He walks out of the shop four hours later, a book half read, and a bag of beans under his arm.

It becomes a habit. The act of pulling on a coat, getting two minutes of fresh air, and luxuriating in a low effort change of scenery is straightforward and does good for him. John read some of the books there, although Harry’s tastes tended to run a bit more scientific than he liked. Not that he couldn’t appreciate a good science text - he’d read _On the Origin of Species_ and a book on Charles Babbage and computing recently - just that the anatomy books did little for him. He tried the Verne again at Harry’s insistence that they could find a compromise between plot and science. (Harry the soon to be Doctor Goodsir, the barista who everyone called Collins had exclaimed proudly and Harry had blushed.) Unfortunately, it seemed his dislike for it in his youth had not abated. There was a wonderful story in Nemo’s submarine, but he still did not care a whit about paramecium. John gave his apologies to Professor Arronnax.

He starts to bring his own books and soak in the comfort in familiarity and the constant smell of coffee which, when he closes his eyes, he can harness to imagine he is in some sort of arabian palace.

People watching starts as a game: a quick reprieve from whatever he is reading, to cleanse his palette as if to better enjoy a meal, a sip of water before the next bite.

There is the grumpy Irishman who he recognizes from the university as an expert in Polar geography. He must be leading some seminar, for he always has three young men trailing behind him: black, brown, and blonde, a perfect trifecta. John learns a fair amount listening to them, not about polar exploration, but the blonde appeared to have an astounding knowledge of the history of coffee and ready to expound at any time, although his companions did not appear charmed by his font of facts.

There is the gaggle of men who come wearing red and white t-shirts with shorts no matter how frigid the weather. They jostle each other to be the one allowed to place the orders and always demand to be served by a dishboy who they call “Pilk” before attempting to reach across the counter and manhandle the tiny mustachioed man.

There is the impeccably dressed older woman and her younger female friend who receive all their food for free, but left tips larger than their bill would have been to begin with.

There is the young man who dresses exclusively in dark turtlenecks, with matching straight bangs over his icy blue eyes, who orders exactly two black coffees every morning, folds a newspaper under his arm, and always nods primly at John on his exit.

But there is one who stands above all the others.

He comes in first alone, a tartan scarf wrapped tight around his neck, but not hiding his easy grin as he takes his order. John is struck by his looks. Age does not remove the ability to appreciate beauty and to John this man is beautiful.

He does not know his name then. Knows only of soft voice and easy laughter and slim fingers revealed when gloves are removed to warm against the cardboard cup.

The man comes in again two days later. John realizes after a fortnight he must have a schedule, some part-time job nearby where Erebus is the easiest place to get a mid-day reprieve.

John tries to guess his name. Kevin? Sean? Ewan? None seem right. He’d usually be blessed by the names that are called out, but the man always seems to order on some sort of app on his phone so he is only there to pick up an already prepared order. What John wouldn’t do to peek and see what was written on the slips of paper that mark the man’s cup on the counter, but his eyes aren’t what they used to be. For the first time in his life John curses all that time spent straining his eyes over the printed page.

He thinks to bother one of the employees, they are friendly enough to him and might be sympathetic, especially James who appears to be an incurable romantic, but John does have a semblance of pride. He refuses even the possibility of coming off as a lecherous old man.

The fifth time, he has a companion, a gangly, curly haired man who carries himself with an unusual combination of haughty moroseness.

“Billy, I really think you ought to break it off with him,” the object of John’s affection says as the two wait in line.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Billy says, “unfortunately he’s got a tongue like a demon. Which does badly over dinner, but it’s a treat in bed I’ll tell you that.” That comment receives a snort in response, impossibly cute, and John takes a deep stabilizing breath.

“These dating apps just don’t seem that fun. I’d like to meet a man the old-fashioned way.”

 _A man?_ John’s heart soars. _Now there was a vital piece of information._

By the eighth time he comes in John is aware he has a problem. He has to duck his head speedily to not be caught staring. It is awfully hard to look away. The man has invaded his mind past the confines of the coffeeshop and he finds he thinks of him all day and, perhaps shamefully, in his bed at night. He has heard a touch of a Scottish accent slip out. He has learned the man is friendly with whoever Pilk’s team of regulars are. He knows the man is patient and kind with the way he listens and manages Billy’s continuous relationship issues. Perhaps this obsession would not have materialized if John did not know the other man was same-sex inclined, or worse he was single. That flare of hope sits burning in John’s chest. It doesn’t do for someone his age to have fallen for a stranger, but he could not lie to himself. It occurs to John that he ought to make some sort of move soon or else his poor heart would surely give out. Dying at sixty-two had not been in his plans.

Just his luck, an opportunity rears its head a month after he first laid eyes on his shining star.

The man is alone this time and actually places his order, only a small drink, this must be a spur of the moment visit.

“Damn, I must have forgotten my wallet. Do a chap a favor?” he begs. The current barista is new, red-faced and sullen, John knows he has a bit of a mean-streak about him. He is very unlikely to take pity on the man.

“I’ll take care of it,” John says, slipping next to him, only a short jump from his chair.

The man’s eyes widen in surprise (and oh aren’t they a wonderful, light as air iris circling pupils dark as the coffee John drinks). He prepares to back off, to weather the expected blow of rejection and hold it close to dampen his desire, but the man will not let him.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” John says, “I see you here often. I can sense you’re reliable and I like to think I’m a good judge of character.”

“Maybe you are, but it’s still generous for a stranger. You don’t know me at all.”

“I think I’d like to.”

John would normally never do this, the man is twenty years younger than he, for christ’s sake, but a man in love will do reckless things.

“If you’re amenable,” he rushes forward, “If not, I’ll pay for your order and we can never speak of it again.”

The man’s mouth had dropped open, but now it snaps shut and he shakes his head definitively. ““No, no, I’d be perfectly happy to. Just give me a minute.” He unzips his bag to remove a slip of paper ripped from a notebook and a pen, scribbles something down as John finishes the transaction at the register. john gently holds the man’s elbow and leads him away from the counter. They gaze at each other, John senses a sudden shyness fall over them, as if in retaliation for their earlier boldness. He keeps his hand on the man’s elbow. The man lets him keep it there.

After he retrieves his drink he hands John the paper: Henry Peglar, an email address (hpeglar@franklin.edu), and a phone number.

“I’d prefer if you called instead of e-mailing,” Henry says and hunches in embarrassment. John cannot bear to see even the mildest anguish on the man’s face. He wishes to wipe away that unease as quickly as possible. Preferably with a kiss, but he’ll settle for second best in public, his words.

“Of course, we all have our preferred methods of communication. I will do what makes you comfortable.”

“It’s because I’m - well, also you have a nice voice.” John detects the hint of a blush in Henry’s clear skin, files that away in his memory for future use. “I’d not heard it before, but I’d noticed you here,” the man says, “always reading.”

“I’m an English professor.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know much about books. I’m sure to be a disappointing date.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Henry leans forward, delighting in the praise, and John is amazed any of this is happening at all, let alone going _well_ , but their introductions are over too quickly, as a beeping starts at the wristwatch on Henry’s arm.

“I’ve got to get to work,” he apologizes, “but i’ll be waiting for that phone call. Any time after six.”

“I’ll be certain to call.”

Then he is gone and the room feels almost dimmer in his absence. John tries to return to his reading, but finds he can’t focus, thinking only of that soft voice and gentle smile. He will be counting down the hours until Henry is off work.

_Henry._

There are many Henries in the bubble of Erebus Coffee. Soon-to-be-Doctor-Goodsir is a Henry. Collins as well. A friend of James’ who is always loitering and angling for free scones is also a Henry. But there is only one Henry to John.

 _Such a simple name,_ John thinks as he presses the paper to his bosom. _Perfect name for a perfect man._

  
  



End file.
